Traitor's Gate
by roane
Summary: John and Sherlock go undercover at a top secret government lab to find out who is selling research. John is back in uniform and Sherlock is back in a laboratory, but they have to pose as strangers. It's up to them to find out who is responsible for putting a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands, and try to keep their hands off each other at the same time.
1. Chapter 1

"A government lab. Didn't you learn your lesson the first time?" John said, lowering the _Telegraph._ "The 'Keep Out' signs? The minefield? Don't tell me you've forgotten the minefield. Because it's certainly clear in my memory."

"This is entirely different," Sherlock said, not looking up from his laptop. "We've been invited."

"By whom?"

From where he sat, John could see the little quirk of the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "The British government."

"The actual British government, or your brother?"

"Both, in this case," Sherlock said. "And it _is_ for a case."

"It's always for a case," John muttered.

"John, I'm surprised at you," Sherlock said, rising from his seat and walking over to John's chair. "Someone is selling British secrets. National security is at stake, and you're balking at a few weeks in Yorkshire?" He leaned down to kiss John, who stopped him with a hand against Sherlock's chest.

"A few weeks."

"Well, maybe a month." Then Sherlock kissed him before he could form a protest. "Think about it. You'll be back in uniform for a while. Haven't you missed it?"

"Why us, though?" John said. "He's got all of MI-bloody-5 and 6, why not just investigate himself?"

Sherlock shook his head, and John pulled him into his lap. "With what's gone missing, the fewer people know, the better. Better you and I than take the risk of a leak. If word got out that a chemical weapon was in the wrong hands, it would cause a panic."

John wrinkled his nose. "You don't fool me, you know. You just want to have a few uninterrupted weeks in a government laboratory. I shudder to think."

"At least I won't be making a mess of the kitchen," Sherlock said, leaning in to breathe hot, moist air over John's ear. John knew it for a shameless attempt at manipulation—any time Sherlock turned deliberately seductive, there was always an ulterior motive.

"Prat," John said, leaning his head to helpfully expose his neck to Sherlock. "All right. Tell me more about this supposed case of your brother's."

"Later," Sherlock said, lowering his mouth to John's skin.

* * *

Side by side in Sherlock's bed, still panting, John glanced over and grinned. "A month? Are you sure you can handle that?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. We've had cases that have run longer than that." Sherlock was a delicious mess, damp curls around his face and at the nape of his neck, cheeks still flushed with orgasm.

"That's not what I mean. We'll have to act like total strangers for a month. Maybe longer." John rolled onto his side and ran his fingertips up a trail of sweat on Sherlock's chest. He leaned in until he was breathing hot breath into Sherlock's ear. "A whole month without being touched." Sherlock stretched beneath his hand and John stroked down the tensing and relaxing muscles of his belly. John dropped his voice to a dirty whisper just to watch Sherlock squirm. "A whole month without me coming inside you." Sherlock gave a small gasp and arched his back. "You'll see me every single day and won't be able to lay a finger on me." John's own fingers had moved to barely tease the the still-damp skin of Sherlock's soft cock, which twitched in response. "I don't think you can do it."

Sherlock took a breath, trying to compose himself. "Of course I can. Unlike some people, I've been perfectly capable—and quite happy—being celibate for years on end. A month is nothing, not when I have a case to focus on."

"Mm, that was before me, though," John said, curling his fingers to carefully lift the flaccid penis beneath his hand, and felt another twitch, suggesting it wouldn't be flaccid for much longer. "That was before you got used to having sex nearly every day for six months."

"Arrogant," Sherlock snorted. "You are not the—" he gasped when John wrapped his fingers more firmly around him "—the air that I breathe, John. I can survive without you as necessary." Nonetheless, he arched towards John's hand his cock growing harder by the minute.

"Really," John said. "Then I guess I can stop this, then." He took his hand away, but Sherlock caught his wrist and brought it back to his crotch.

"No, don't stop." The words tumbled out like Sherlock didn't mean to say them.

John laughed and bit at Sherlock's ear, drawing out a quiet groan. "You're just proving my point for me." By now Sherlock was fully hard, and John stroked him, fast and loose.

"What is—what is your point, then?"

"You won't be able to live without me for a month."

"Yes, I—mm, I will."

John curled closer, draping his leg over Sherlock's, pressing his own cock into Sherlock's hip. "A wager, then. Can you, or can you not, go without sex for the duration of this case?"

"And if I can't?" Sherlock wasn't quite distracted from what John's hand was doing, but he turned his head to look at John.

"No experiments in the kitchen. For a year."

"Hmph. And if I can," Sherlock said, reaching across to bite John's lower lip. "You burn that hideous Christmas jumper."

John turned the bite into a lip-sucking kiss, slowly pushing himself up and over until he was straddling Sherlock's hips. "You're on."

* * *

Sherlock glared at the box of equipment from Mycroft as if it had tried to bite him. "This mobile is useless. Worse than useless." He picked it up and fiddled with it, then dropped it back into the box.

John was more sanguine. "It's not a smart phone, is all. Sherlock, this is a top secret facility. You can't just walk in there with a camera phone." He looked up from his laptop and grinned. "You can still text, I don't know what you're complaining about."

"That's about all it can do," Sherlock said, then found something else in the box that caught his eye and went fishing for it.

"You could use it to make a phone call, as crazy as it sounds."

"Why would I want to do that?"

John rolled his eyes and went back to his laptop. Rather than advertise his absence from London, he had several blog posts already written and ready to post, and figured out how to schedule them. "At any rate," he said, "those phones are our only way to contact Mycroft securely in an emergency. And each other."

The only response he got was a disgruntled mutter.

"You're nervous about leaving tomorrow, aren't you," John said without lifting his eyes from his screen. "That's what's got you so wound up."

"Don't be ridiculous. I have much more experience at this than you do. I'll be fine."

John grinned. "Ah, so you're nervous about me being undercover? That's... almost sweet of you."

"I am not nervous about anything," Sherlock said, shoving the box of equipment aside. John stood up and walked over to him, and pulled him away from the box before he broke something.

"We'll be in touch," John said. "Mycroft's certain the leak is either from the researchers' side or the security side. We'll go, we'll get a feel for the people there, and give Mycroft our list of suspects. That's all we have to do."

"I thought I was the one who convinced you to take this case," Sherlock said, finally showing a hint of amusement.

"What can I say, you won me over. What time are you leaving in the morning?"

Sherlock's eyes darkened as they roamed over John's face. "Four AM."

"Plenty of time until then," John said, "for a proper sendoff." He grinned. "I should give you something to remember while you're up in the cold and lonely north without me."

* * *

Mycroft handed John a folder full of paperwork. "I trust you've had adequate time to study your legend. Memorise it, make it who you are." He looked down his thin nose at John. "Do you understand?"

John flipped open the folder and saw a military ID fastened at the front of the folder, bearing his face and the name Captain James Kincaide. "I have done this before, Mycroft."

"This isn't a couple of hours spent drinking with a suspect at a pub. If you do not _become_ Kincaide, if you blow your cover, you ruin six months' worth of work," Mycroft said.

"I understand," John said, feeling the tension in his hands. He tried not to think too hard about how serious it must be, if Mycroft had gone to so much trouble as to create not one, but two false identities that passed the level of scrutiny required to get he and Sherlock hired at Innovation Labs.

"As Captain Kincaide, you'll be in charge of the duty rosters, which will give you ample opportunity to figure out where the security leaks might be happening, while Sherlock figures out who." He gave John another of his smiles that suggested he was doing John an enormous favour. "I've had to increase your security clearance, of course. You'll be signing the Official Secrets Act before you leave this office today."

"Oh, will I?"

Mycroft delicately lifted an eyebrow.

"All right, fine. If I'm signing up for the whole business, then tell me what exactly is happening at this lab," John said, closing the folder on Captain James Kincaide.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in a gesture reminiscent of his brother. "For every lab like Baskerville, with a shadowy reputation, there are a handful of similar labs with much lower profiles. It's... easier that way. The higher profile laboratories get all the media attention, while the other labs are able to focus more on their work. Innovation Labs, while on record as a Defence Science & Technology Laboratory, is quiet about the specialised research they carry on for the MOD."

"You're saying the work at Innovation is even more advanced?" John wondered if he should be taking notes.

"The research going on at Innovation makes Baskerville look like a primary school science project." Mycroft said. "So you'll understand we're rather concerned about some of it falling into the wrong hands."

"Christ," John said. "And what's gone missing?"

"Some initial advanced research on a potential antipersonnel toxin called Corona-132. One gram, properly aerosolised, is lethal to a radius of a mile. As yet, there is no adequate dispersal method, but still. Not the sort of thing we want, say, North Korea to acquire."

"If it's already out, what are we supposed to do?"

Mycroft shook his head. "It isn't entirely out. Just enough to whet a buyer's appetite and provide proof of concept. We have to stop the rest."

"Chemical weapons research—isn't that illegal?"

Mycroft smiled. "At smaller dosages, it's merely a deterrent, and isn't fatal, no more so than tear gas."

"Oh, and of course, we would never employ it at a fatal dosage," John said.

"Of course not." Mycroft rose to his feet. "Now, if there are no further questions, you'll be reporting for duty in two days. I cannot emphasise strongly enough how vital it is that you're comfortable with Captain Kincaide's life history. Our analysts have made it somewhat similar to your own, to make it easier on you."

"I noticed. Ta very much," John said, standing up.

"And John—don't let Sherlock get up to his usual tricks. I want regular reports from both of you."


	2. Chapter 2

John looked at the uniform carefully folded and packed in his suitcase and felt like a fraud. In just a few hours he'd be reporting for duty as Captain James Kincaide. Sherlock had already been in Yorkshire for two weeks, posing as David Sigerson, newly-hired biochemist at Innovation Labs. As John dressed, he went through the details of his back story once more. Kincaide was a career officer, as John would have been if not for his injury. Kincaide was no doctor, though, so John would need to remember to keep that knowledge to himself.

Kincaide had a younger brother, Henry. Like Harriet, Henry was prone to drink and was newly divorced. The Kincaide brothers weren't close. So no one was likely to come visiting James in his new assignment. John went through Kincaide's educational history in his head once more, trying to find the tipping point where he wasn't spewing memorised facts, but was talking about personal memories.

John had had no contact with Sherlock since he'd left for Innovation, aside from two texts, letting John know that he'd made it safely. All of the other mission briefings had come from Mycroft himself.

It would be odd, living in a barracks-type situation once more. He would have his own tiny flat near the lab, government-owned housing. He'd still be living practically on top of his co-workers. The resultant lack of privacy would mean John would have to be particularly careful. Private, direct contact with Sherlock would be difficult if not impossible. They were limited to texts and the occasional meeting in urgent circumstances. That would be unpleasant, but not unbearable. John smiled; Sherlock was going to have a tougher time with that than he was. He was already looking forward to a year of a reasonably clean and sanitary kitchen free of body parts and strange toxins.

He stood in front of the hotel room mirror and straightened his collar. Every detail of the uniform was exact and perfect. It still looked wrong to John's eyes. For all that Mycroft called living with Sherlock seeing the battlefield, it was never true. He wasn't a soldier, not really, not anymore. If there was a true soldier in the lot at Innovation, they would be able to spot the civilian under John's skin. He just hoped for Sherlock's sake he could fake it convincingly enough to get them through the case.

* * *

Sherlock adjusted his microscope and took another look at the slide. His mind wasn't on the bacteria for once but on the others he'd met in his first weeks. The laboratory work culture was precisely what he'd expected. The only real difference from the labs he'd spent time at in uni was that the stakes were higher, financially and scientifically. There were the same petty rivalries and games of professional oneupsmanship. Sherlock already knew whose careers were on the rise and whose were on the wane. In the latter category was his officemate, one Dr Wilson. Above average scientist, but not brilliant enough to make up for how inept she was at playing the game. She was, however, just brilliant enough to read the writing on the wall, which made her a very bitter and unhappy woman.

There was a knock at the office door. "Dr Sigerson? David?"

"Nina, hi," Sherlock stretched his face in a wide smile. David Sigerson was much more affable than he was.

"Hi," Nina said, just a touch breathless. Nina Hunter was one of the junior scientists on the team, a biochemist. "A group of us are going for drinks tonight, want to come?"

It sounded like Sherlock's idea of hell. He grinned. "Thanks! That'd be fantastic. What time?"

"Six PM," Nina said. "There's only one pub in the village, you shouldn't miss it."

"Great. Who's going to be there?"

Nina waved one hand in a vague gesture. "Oh, you know. Most of the team. I don't think Dr Wilson is coming through."

"She wouldn't, would she," Sherlock said, prompting a giggle. "That would be too much like having a life."

"Shh," Nina said, still giggling.

There would be worse ways to analyse how the team interacted and get a good sense of the personalities involved than to spend a night out drinking with them. Sherlock wanted to kick himself a little for not thinking of it first.

"I'll be there," Sherlock said.

"Excellent! We'll see you at six!" She ducked back out, smiling widely.

Sherlock turned to his laptop and opened up his case notes. Nina Hunter was roughly thirty but seemed much younger. There was an awkward, coltish air to her that reminded Sherlock of Molly Hooper, but without the obvious crush—thank god. Judging from her speech patterns—nothing so strong as an accent—her parents were immigrants from the West Indies, but had done well enough to get Nina into a series of posh schools.

His file on his officemate, Dr Melissa Wilson, was sparse. That was unforgivably sloppy of him. There was nothing in his case notes yet about her family. Sherlock turned his attention to her immediate work area, eyes roaming over the items there. There were various photos of two children on Wilson's desk, but also a crudely drawn picture of a dog addressed to "Aunt Melissa". So the children belonged to the sister he'd heard Wilson complain about so often. Wilson only tolerated the sister out of love for the children, no doubt, Sherlock thought, wrinkling his nose.

He checked his email to find the latest messages caught in his search protocols. His first day in, he'd managed to plant a worm on the email server that sent him copies of any emails with odd, suspicious, or generally unusual wording, anything that might be code. Although the algorithm was complex, Sherlock hadn't taken into account how many non-native English speakers worked for Innovation—he had a lot of dross to sort through. It was unlikely that their suspect would use his or her work email for peddling State secrets anyway, but there was no underestimating the idiocy of the average person.

Sherlock ruffled his hair in frustration. The atmosphere here was dreadful. He felt as if his thoughts were moving through fog. Worse, he hadn't counted on having such difficulty being apart from John. He would be arriving sometime this week, but that seemed unlikely to make the situation better. As John had warned him, they would see each other nearly every day, but would be able to do little more than exchange a few words, as coworkers did.

The last time he could remember having a wet dream he was fifteen years old, but it had happened twice since he'd come to Yorkshire. Sherlock had developed a regular routine of masturbation to try and regain some semblance of control, but if anything, that had made it worse. His hand, no matter how clever it was, wasn't John, and regular masturbation had proved to be a maddening reminder of that. He tried to banish any and all thoughts about sex from his head, and found his usual mental discipline methods failed miserably.

Damn John and his smug assurances that Sherlock wouldn't be able to get by without him.

His office phone rang, saving him from further thoughts about John Watson.

"This is David," he said, answering.

"Ahh, David. Good, you're around. Can you come by Lab B when you have a moment? I want to get your opinion on something." Dr Fletcher was without a doubt one of the most inept administrators Sherlock had ever encountered. As a scientist he wasn't terrible, but he had no business being in his current position.

"Of course. I'll be right there." This would be a test. Fletcher was fond of presenting problems to his subordinates to see if they would give him the appropriate solutions. Sherlock rolled his eyes and slipped out of his chair, grabbing his lab coat as he went.

* * *

Sherlock had been right. There was something exciting about being in uniform again. Muscle memory had taken over the minute he'd laced up his boots, and the civilian he'd seen in his mirror was gone. He'd missed the sound of those boots thumping against pavement, the quick snap of a salute given and returned. There was something home-like about it. He arrived at Major Godwin's office a few minutes early, and was shown in.

"Captain Kincaide, we're glad to have you here." Godwin was a walking advertisement for the type of colonial-era British officer that John thought had vanished with the Empire, from his flushed, hearty features to the rather walrus-like moustache. He would have looked right at home in a pith helmet.

"Happy to be here, sir." When Godwin motioned for him to sit, John sat.

"I don't want you to think that this is a dull, comfortable job out in the middle of nowhere, Captain," Godwin said. "We take security rather seriously around here. You'll find some top-notch minds at work here at Innovation, and it's our job to see that they can do their work safely."

_You might want to make it your job to see that they aren't selling out the country_, John thought.

Godwin continued, in a speech so well-rehearsed, John could practically see where it was creased and folded from living in Godwin's pockets. He extolled the virtues of the research being done at the lab, and how many lives the scientists were saving with their work every day. John thought that unlikely, given what Mycroft had told him about Corona-132.

There was a knock at Godwin's office door. "Come."

"You sent for me, sir?" The woman who opened the door was a few years younger than John and damned attractive, with neatly pinned back auburn hair and bright blue eyes.

"Corporal Campbell, yes. Captain Kincaide, Corporal Campbell will show you around the place and get you settled in." Godwin stood up, and John followed suit. "It'll be good to have some fresh eyes around the place," Godwin said. And with that, John and the corporal were dismissed.

As they walked through the warren of hallways and offices, John said, "Major Godwin seems—"

Campbell glanced over and grinned. "A bit old-school?"

"Something like that, yes."

"I think he read too much Kipling as a child," she said. "Still, he's a good officer."

As she showed him the check-in processes at each entrance—which included metal detectors and the occasional random x-ray scan, John asked, "Have you ever had a problem with someone trying to get in?"

She shrugged. "We're off the radar of most of the nutters, but every now and then one of them will try and break in to find the UFOs."

"So where do you keep those, then?" John asked mildly, trying to keep a straight face.

Campbell smiled—she really did have a lovely smile—and shook her head. "That's above my pay grade, I'm afraid."

"Damn, and I had such high hopes," John said.

Baskerville had radiated high-tech menace, but Innovation had a bland, corporate warmth to it, at least on the levels he'd seen so far. Everywhere were shades of beige and soothing orange, administrative workers in carpeted cubicles with the low hum of a lot of office equipment and computers filling the air. Campbell walked him to the lift and once they were inside, swiped her ID and selected a floor. "Now yours," she said, and John swiped his as well.

"What happens if I don't use my ID?" he said.

The lift started moving with a small whir. "The doors wouldn't close," she said. "The lower levels are only open to certain security clearances. Sensors in the lift determine how many people are aboard, and if a matching number of IDs aren't swiped, the lift won't move."

"Clever," John said.

"It can be a pain in the arse," Campbell said as the doors opened. "Although the brains figured out quick they couldn't get away with leaving their IDs at home."

"What about stairwells?" The lower level looked more like what John had expected. It was unmistakably a laboratory, although it lacked the aura of 'evil government lab' that Baskerville had had. It might have had something to do with the lack of shrieking monkeys.

"Inaccessible except in an emergency," she said. "There are several automatic sensors that will unlock the doors in case of fire or chemical mishap."

"Power failure?" The ceiling felt too low to John suddenly, the air tightening in his throat.

Campbell shook her head, taking them around a corner. "Too many backup generators. It wouldn't happen, at least not before the Major could authorise a manual override." She took a closer look at him. "Really. You're not trapped."

He tried to smile. "Did it show that clearly?"

"I did the same thing on my first day," she said. "The feeling goes away. Give it about a week." She stopped a silver-haired man. "Dr Fletcher, I'd like to introduce Captain James Kincaide. He's starting with our security staff today. Captain Kincaide, this is Dr Jeffrey Fletcher, he's the head of research here."

Fletcher extended his hand. "Captain. I assume you've already met my counterpart in Security, Major Godwin?"

"Yes sir," John said, shaking his hand.

"Welcome aboard," he said, then turned to Campbell. "Corporal, we've had complaints again about front gate staff harassing the new fellows. Can we please make certain they have an updated staff roster?"

"Of course, Doctor." His only response was to nod gruffly, then continue on his way. Campbell's expression was sour, but she was too professional to say anything, so John prompted her.

"What was that about?"

They continued on their tour. "Sometimes the new scientists get tetchy about security regulations, especially if they came from an academic background. The newest one's been a right dick."

_I bet I know who that is. _"Oh? What've they done?"

"The usual. 'Why do I have to show you my ID all of the time, why don't you know who I am yet', that sort of rubbish. We get one or two with every half-dozen new hires."

"Sounds delightful," John said, rolling his eyes.

"Lucky you, you'll miss out," Campbell said, pushing them through a set of double doors. "You won't be doing gate duty much, just if someone pulls a sickie. Which reminds me, we've got an infirmary, but don't expect much. Anything really serious and they send you on to Manchester."

"That's a strong incentive to not get sick," John said, and it earned him a grin.

"With all due respect, Captain, I'm from Manchester."

"And you've overcome it very well."

Campbell laughed and they continued on their way. John relaxed for the first time since he woke up that morning.

"So if you don't worry too much about someone breaking in, what are the big security worries here?" he asked. A strong odour of formaldehyde came to them.

"Oh god, Dr Wilson is at it again," Campbell said. Before John could ask 'at what', Campbell answered his first question. "Since most of the research is top-secret, we have some protocols in place to make sure it doesn't walk out the door. Of course, you've already seen the first layer, with the screening our people get."

"I've had prostate exams that were less invasive."

"An apt metaphor," Campbell said, "since that's the step most likely to turn up any shit. In addition, we closely monitor emails that leave our network, and don't allow any forms digital media storage to enter the building. Or cameras—they told you about that, yeah? No mobile phone cameras?"

"Sure did, no cameras on me."

"And here I was hoping to order a search," Campbell said, glancing back with a grin. "Come on, I'll show you the mess."

* * *

The mess was more like a corporate cafeteria, with a surprising mingling of uniformed and non-uniformed personnel. John's stomach rumbled, reminding him that it was lunchtime. He didn't argue when Campbell led him through the line to grab some food. There was, thank god, tea, along with sandwiches and a variety of biscuits. He followed Campbell with his tray to a table made up almost entirely of uniformed men and women, all of whom started to rise when John approached. "At ease," he murmured, and gestured for them to stay seated, before taking his own seat.

"This is Captain Kincaide," Campbell said. "He just joined us, so don't make us look bad, all right?" She pointed around the table. "Privates Johansson, Rand, Smith, and Davies. And Lieutenant Morris." Christ they were all young. Rand and Smith still had spots, for god's sake. They looked like a cross-section of England: Johansson was Celtic fair and was already showing signs of a sunburn despite the heavy cloud cover, Rand had the gawky, raw-boned look of a northern country boy. Smith was of mixed ancestry and Davies clearly was not. John could hear a touch of South Africa in his speech when he said hello. And Morris, the only other woman and officer in the lot, was about as ginger as anyone John had ever seen, straight down to the clustered freckles on her cheeks.

John gave a friendly smile. Places like here, in the mess, he would treat them more as equals than subordinates. To a certain point, anyway. He'd found it was a good way to get to know his soldiers, and to win their affection and loyalty, "And what do you all do here?"

"Me and Johansson and Davies, sir," said Rand, "we're on security detail." He grinned, showing gappy teeth. "Davies usually gets stuck doing gate duty."

"I don't mind," Davies said. "We tried to stick Johansson out there and he damn near died of sunstroke." Laughter went around the table, and Johansson turned pinker.

Smith looked up almost shyly. "I'll be working with you, Captain. I'm to show you the duty rotations this afternoon."

"Excellent, I'm looking forward to it," John said.. "And you?" he said to Morris.

"Morris is decorative," Rand said, grinning widely. "We don't know what else she does."

Morris snorted. "You liked the way I decoratively kicked your arse in sparring practice, did you?"

"It _was_ awfully pretty," Campbell chimed in.

"That it was," said Davies. "Rand couldn't walk straight for a week."

Morris grinned at John. "What these prats are trying to say is that they don't have clearance to know what it is I do. We'll be working together, I'm sure."

"Sounds like I have a lot to look forward to then," John said. "Nice to meet you all."


	3. Chapter 3

The pub was loud and boisterous when Sherlock arrived, just after six PM. A quick glance around showed a clear divide between the villagers and people who worked for Innovation. No sense of any animosity, only a... separation. He spotted Nina and the others at a table near the back and waved. Sherlock wove his way through the dense crowd of folks heading to the bar.

Focused on looking ahead, he collided with someone with a small 'oof'. "Oh, I'm terribly sor—" A familiar pair of dark blue eyes grinned up at him. He barely bit back a 'John', and instead continued, "Sorry."

"No harm done, mate," John said, clapping him on the arm. "Little tight in here, eh?"

"Yes. Yes it is." Sherlock tried not to stare at John still in combat fatigues, his hair mussed by the uniform beret he'd no doubt been wearing all day. The hunger to lean down and kiss him blindsided him, and he swallowed. John squeezed past, and Sherlock felt an unmistakable grope to his arse. He nearly missed John's quiet murmur before he vanished into the crowd:

"Meet me in the men's in an hour."

Sherlock's heart thudded in his throat, but he forced himself to not look back at John, instead continuing on his way to his table.

"David, you made it!" Nina squealed, jumping up to give him a quick hug. She'd already had—he paused, factoring in her weight and height—nearly a pint, at the flushed and happy stage of alcohol consumption.

"Hey Nina, of course I did. I wouldn't have missed this." He smiled at her as he sat down. "Better here than settling in for crap telly, right?"

"You'll have plenty of time for that," one of the men said. Sherlock kept wanting to call him Matthew, but that was wrong... Mayhew. That was it. "There's not much else going on here."

Nina leaned over the table and said, "It's a conspiracy to keep us happy to work long hours in the lab."

"Well, it's working," Mayhew said, draining his pint. He stood, "The same for everyone? What's yours, David?"

"Guinness, thanks mate," Sherlock said. He tried not to pay attention to the clock as introductions went round the table. Most of them he knew already from studying their work before his arrival. They were a mix of biochemists, biophysicists, and organic chemists, all of which was in keeping with the research Innovation did. Fletcher wasn't there, of course, bad form for the boss to show up, and neither was Wilson, as expected.

He drank slower than the rest, and listened to the conversation with a pleasant smile on his face. God, had any hour ever dragged by more? He learned Fletcher was likely a secret drinker, and everyone suspected Wilson of having an affair with the department head before Fletcher. "It's the only possible reason she's kept her job so far," Mayhew said. "Her research is shite!"

Sherlock took a long swallow of Guinness to keep from telling him his publications had stopped being remotely original sometime in the late '90s. When he'd been sitting there for nearly an hour, and excused himself from the table. To his acute embarrassment, he realised he was half-hard just thinking about being alone in a small space with John.

The men's loo was a one-stall affair, with a urinal and a sink, and was about as pleasant as one would expect a village pub's loo to be early in the evening. John was waiting, and locked the door behind Sherlock. Before John could say anything, Sherlock pressed him against the door and kissed him, curling his fingers up the sides of his face and around his skull. John grabbed his hips and pulled him in tight and for a long moment, all that mattered was John's tongue sliding against his, the feel of his cock pressing against John's belly, and the quiet, hungry sounds they were both making, starving men presented with a feast.

John broke the kiss, leaning his head breathlessly against the door. "Christ. Hello to you too," he said, groaning when Sherlock bent to kiss his neck. Sherlock could taste John's dried sweat, salty-sharp and reminiscent of the blood beating against his tongue through John's jugular vein. Everything in him screamed need, begging for skin and mouths and hands, even if it meant sex right here and now on a filthy bathroom floor. Nothing remained but want, his rational thought gone.

"Sherlock," John hissed, taking him by the shoulders and easing him back. "We need to talk."

Sherlock didn't want to talk, not unless the words 'yes' and 'more' and 'please' were somehow involved. "Talk later," he said, trying to lean back in to kiss John.

He held Sherlock off, and grinned. "Sounds like I have a clean kitchen to look forward to when we get home."

Sherlock tried to register what he was saying. He groaned and pushed away from John. "No." He straightened his jacket and folded his arms. "When did you arrive?"

"Today," John said. "Have you learned anything yet?"

"A bit," Sherlock said, slowly feeling his heart rate slow and his breathing return to normal. "I've ruled out several possibilities. The most logical method of transfer is that someone is walking the data out of here on a memory stick or in some other fashion."

John shook his head. "That's impossible though. Corporal Campbell told me today they do regular searches for digital media to prevent just that sort of thing."

"Well, they're not searching hard enough," Sherlock said.

"Hm." John leaned back against the door and Sherlock was struck again by how much he wanted him. "I'll see what I can do about that. Maybe we'll catch something. Or someone."

"How's their security?"

"Not bad," John said. "They seem pretty thorough. That damned lift, though. Gives me the creeps."

Sherlock chuckled. "It'll get easier."

"Yeah, that's what I've been told." He leaned up from the door and gave Sherlock a quick kiss. "I should head back. Text me if you need to talk, or if you find out anything."

"Mm," Sherlock agreed.

John touched his cheek once, quickly. "I've missed you." Then he unlocked the door and was gone.

Sherlock went into the stall and waited for a few minutes, while someone came in and used the urinal. He tried to regain his composure, to pull the cloak of David Sigerson back around him. Ready, he stepped out, washed his hands, and rejoined his table.

"Oh god," Mayhew was saying, "you're not one of those 'information needs to be free' nutters, are you?"

Nina shook her head. "Of course not. I just think sometimes we keep secrets from the wrong people."

Sherlock leaned forward. "Like?"

"Well," Nina said, "do you know what you're really working on?"

"Of course," Sherlock said. "Defences against biological warfare, that much isn't top secret."

"So they tell you," Nina said, setting down her glass. "Once they have your research, who knows what they'll do with it? I wish I'd known—before—what the consequences might be, but what can you do? Science marches on." She stood up. "Anybody else want another?"

"Yeah, thanks," Sherlock said. "The same." Once she left, he turned to Mayhew. "She seems pretty upset."

Mayhew shrugged. "She'll be fine. Everybody goes through that first bit of disillusionment, you know?"

"God yeah," Sherlock said with a chuckle. "I remember. What was yours?"

"What? The moment I realised I was never going to cure cancer? I was probably about Nina's age. You?"

"I don't think I even made it that far," Sherlock said, and lifted his nearly-empty class. "To the loss of scientific innocence."

"I can bloody well drink to that," Mayhew said.

* * *

The morning was gloriously bright and sunny. It was hateful. It stood between him and the darkness and quiet of his office, where he could retreat with a large cup of coffee and some paracetemol. It had been a week since that first night in the pub, and Sherlock had gone back with the others nearly every night since. Last night he hadn't paced himself well enough.

John was on guard duty when he arrived. As he pulled up, he watched John step out of the guard station and wait for Sherlock's car to pull up all the way. John hadn't returned to the pub, much to Sherlock's frustration.

"Morning, Mr. Sigerson," John said amiably. His face was a perfect mask, nothing at all like the face Sherlock had seen that night in the pub loo. It occurred to him that when John had pushed him away it had been as much a sacrifice for John as him.

"Morning, Captain Kincaide." Sherlock took the clipboard and signed himself in. The pen was warm from John's body heat, and for a mad moment Sherlock envied it. He couldn't resist looking John over. The military bearing he spotted when they first met was intensified by the lines of his uniform, upright and straight and perfect. The short silver-gold strands of John's hair gleamed beneath the beret, and as much as he'd quietly mourned when John reverted to a military haircut for this operation, he couldn't help but think of how it felt to curl his fingers against the nape of John's neck the last time they'd kissed at home. Three weeks ago. Well, seventeen days, to be exact. Almost to the minute.

John cleared his throat. "Did you need anything else, Mr. Sigerson?"

Sherlock tore his gaze away from the thin, amused line of John's lips and handed back the clipboard. "No. Thank you, Captain." Now he could see a bit of sparkle in John's eyes. The bastard was laughing at him.

"Have a good day," John said, and stepped back to wave Sherlock's car through. Sherlock drove through the gates, watching John in the rear view mirror until he was out of sight.

* * *

"Someone's in a strop this morning," Wilson said without looking up from her laptop. The flowered blouse she wore was especially hideous, and did nothing for the dull mousy brown of her hair except to accentuate the streaks of silver showing up.

"Sorry, sorry," Sherlock said, taking more care about banging and thumping around his desk. "Bad head this morning. The sun."

"Have a good night out then, did you?" Sherlock could hear a faint tone of reproach beneath her words.

"Oh." Sherlock's head pounded. If he had the liberty to be himself, he'd tell her to stop snivelling. The knowledge that he needed to be cheerful, polite David Sigerson made his head hurt worse. "It was all right. We missed you."

"I somehow doubt that," Wilson said.

"No, really," Sherlock persisted. "You should come next time. It'll be fun."

"Maybe I will," she said, and turned enough away from him to let him know the conversation was over.

In his email was a message from Mycroft. Coded, of course, and sent from a fake email address, from David Sigerson's brother.

_Davy— when you get this, give me a call? I tried calling you last night but didn't get you. We have to talk about Mummy. She's had a bit of a turn._

Mycroft had assured him the cell phones he'd provided—despite looking down market and low tech, were actually advanced enough to be shielded and scrambled, so he sent a text.

From: Sherlock 10:32  
What's going on?  
-SH

To: Sherlock 10:32  
MI-6 picking up chatter about a new weapon coming out of the UK. Believe it's your fellow.

It must be serious. Mycroft responded to that text incredibly fast.

To: Sherlock 10:33  
Find him. In two days the research will be completely in the open, and we'll have failed.

From: Sherlock 10:33  
Have your team found anything useful in their background searches? At all?  
-SH

Sherlock snapped his phone closed in irritation, drumming his fingers on his desktop.

"Problems?" asked Wilson.

"Oh, just family," he said. "My brother."

He chose the right words, because Wilson turned away from her laptop and looked ready to warm to the subject. "Family can be _awful_ can't they? What'd yours do?"

Sherlock waved his hand vaguely, leaning an elbow against his desk. "Our mother, god bless her. She's at a state where she needs a proper carer, but Daniel just can't admit to it."

"That's terrible," Wilson said, with a sympathetic face. Her eyes, though, were gleaming with the desire to jump in with her own family horror stories. Sherlock opened the door.

"Didn't you say you had a sister?" As if he hadn't heard about her a thousand times already.

Wilson sighed an enormous, put-upon sigh. "I do. She's lovely, but we do have some rows from time to time. Why, do you know, the last time I saw her..."

Sherlock settled in and listened, waiting to see what she might reveal.

"...she actually the nerve to ask me for money." Wilson wrinkled her nose. "Now, I've helped them in the past, mind. With the girls needing school tuition, and her husband's had such a run of bad luck. But this was really the final straw. 'I can't come in and save you every time you forget to carry a number in your chequebook, Janet,' I said. I'm just at the end of my tether, but those poor girls." She sighed. "I don't know how I'll do it, but I imagine I'll be helping out again."

"She doesn't deserve a sister like you, sounds like," Sherlock said.

"Now, I wouldn't go that far, but let me tell you about the time she..."

Sherlock was already thinking of ways to end the conversation. He was saved by his buzzing phone. "Sorry."

To: Sherlock 10:41  
You were correct: Dennis Mayhew and Melissa Wilson both in serious financial difficulty.

To: Sherlock 10:41  
As are several of the military staff. Passing their names to John.

To: Sherlock 10:41  
Mayhew's sister was a militant peace activist. Campaigned against chemical warfare. Nothing else of relevance came up.

From: Sherlock 10:42  
Send me the data, I'll decide what's relevant.  
-SH

To: Sherlock 10:42  
No time. Get in touch with John immediately.


	4. Chapter 4

The unexpected guard shift first thing in the morning hadn't been so bad, really. The sun was shining, and the look on Sherlock's face when he'd driven up and seen John had been worth every moment spent in the guard hut. John had suspected Sherlock would react badly to being away from him, but he hadn't expected anything as intense as their encounter in the pub. He'd missed having Sherlock in his bed, but anything that triggered such a raw, purely physical reaction from Sherlock was worth exploring further.

As if thinking of him had been enough to conjure him, John's phone buzzed.

From: Sherlock 11:45  
We have two days to find the leak.  
-SH

To: Sherlock 11:45  
But I thought we had a month.

From: Sherlock 11:45  
Plans changed. We need to talk.  
-SH

To: Sherlock 11:45  
Where?

From: Sherlock 11:45  
Meet me outside entrance C in fifteen minutes.  
-SH

John was due for a break anyway.

Fifteen minutes later he stepped outside security door C to find Sherlock there, smoking a cigarette. "All right, what's going on?" John asked.

Sherlock glanced around, then offered the packet of cigarettes to John. "Here. This will give you an excuse to stand and talk."

John wrinkled his nose but took one, and accepted a light. "The things I do for my bloody country." He took a drag, but didn't dare inhale for fear of ruining the illusion he was actually a smoker.

"Mycroft contacted me. The buyer will have all the information they need on Corona-132 in two days. We've got to find the seller before then." Sherlock toyed with the cig and laughed, nudging John as if he'd just told a joke.

John grinned and nodded, playing along. "How close are you?"

"Close," Sherlock said, taking a drag, and he did inhale. Despite his general distaste for the habit, John couldn't help but watch the shape of Sherlock's lips and the hollow of his cheeks. "We need the _how_. You're right, ordinary digital transfer media is impossible to bring in. I tried."

"Right. Door scan caught you, didn't it," John said, forcing himself to take another drag. Christ his mouth already tasted horrible. "No email would make it outside of the network either. So how else could they be walking the data out of here?"

"That's what we need to find out." Sherlock finished his cigarette and ground it out beneath his foot. "Go through every security protocol you can get your hands on. Look for loopholes." He grinned and clapped John on the shoulder for the benefit of any observers, and went back inside. John forced himself to stay outside for an additional five minutes before grinding out his own cigarette and heading back to his desk. There wasn't enough tea in the building to get the foul taste out of his mouth.

That didn't mean he couldn't try, of course, and as he was making a cup, his phone buzzed.

From: Sherlock 12:35  
Satisfy my curiosity: when was the last time you had sex while wearing your uniform?  
-SH

To: Sherlock 12:35  
I'm pretty sure Mycroft didn't give us these phones for sexting

From: Sherlock 12:35  
I'll get you to tell me sooner or later.  
-SH

To: Sherlock 12:36  
You know he's probably monitoring this

From: Sherlock 12:36  
I don't care. When this case is over, you're going to fuck me with your boots still on.  
-SH

John was just taking a sip of tea and nearly choked.

To: Sherlock 12:36  
Oh will I

From: Sherlock 12:37  
I'm not going to give you time to take them off.  
-SH

To: Sherlock 12:37  
Is someone having a little difficulty with their transport?

From: Sherlock 12:38  
Are you ever going to let that tedious joke die?  
-SH

To: Sherlock 12:38  
No

John pocketed his mobile and tried to keep from grinning. What was it like in Sherlock's brain right now? He must be going mad, trying to stay focused on the case while his body kept getting in the way. If national security weren't at risk, John would be having the time of his life.

* * *

Sherlock picked up a pile of reports and left his office. He found Mayhew in one of the central work areas surrounded by the smell of ozone and the sound of electronic dance music. Mayhew moved his head in time to the music as he went from microscope to notes and back again. That constant movement couldn't possibly be doing his observational accuracy any good. When he caught sight of Sherlock, he stopped dancing and grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, was the music bothering you?" He leaned across the table to turn down the portable stereo.

"Oh, no," Sherlock said. "It's great." It was profoundly annoying. "Can I get you to look at some of these figures for me? Something seems off, and I can't put my finger on it." The papers were a mess, deliberately. It would take Mayhew ages to figure it out.

"Oh sure. When do you need it?"

"Tomorrow?" Sherlock said, with a hopeful smile.

Mayhew nodded. "I can do that."

"Ta very much." He turned to go, then stopped, as if having a second thought. "Listen. There must be something else to do around here besides go to the pub and work. You've been here a while, what else is there?"

"Well." Mayhew tucked away the papers and turned back to his microscope. "There's a little theatre that does plays sometimes. They're terrible, but usually amusing. And there's a dog track about ten kilometres from here."

"That any good?" Sherlock held open another door, and Mayhew charged through. The light in his eyes suggested Sherlock had found the root of Mayhew's financial difficulties.

"Yeah, sure. It's good fun." He laughed, and the sound had an edge to it. "You should come. Could bring me some luck. You wanna go sometime, let me know."

"Sure thing," Sherlock said, and turned to go for real. "I hope you can find the problem in that report, it's got me stumped."

* * *

John had the convenient excuse of still learning the ropes to spend some time watching Rand and Johansson handle security at the front entrance. In addition to the metal detector, there was also an actual body scan, and a search of bags coming in to the facility. Most researchers and administrative staff had quickly learned to bring in what they needed for work and leave it there, and as a result, many came in to work nearly empty-handed, and left the same way.

As the men worked, there was a comfortable banter between them and the staff members they checked. Johansson, it seemed, had a new boyfriend, and Rand thought the way he blushed about it was hilarious. "So tell me again how you met him," Rand said, perching his chin on his hands, elbow on the security desk.

"Sod off," Johansson said, his fair complexion creeping from pink to tomato-red.

Rand laughed. "Jesus Christ. Every single time. How is that even possible?"

"I can't help it, okay? It's the skin colour."

When the next staffer came in the door, Rand was still snickering. "Good morning," he said, turning the laugh into a grin.

John watched closely as Rand steered the staff member through the metal detector, then the body scan, while Johansson did a quick search of the man's bag. He pulled out what looked like a toy car. With a tug, it split into two pieces, showing the USB plug of a flash drive.

"I'm afraid we'll have to keep this," Johansson said. "No transfer media allowed in or out."

"Oh damn," the man said. "I forgot that was in there."

"It'll be here when you leave today," Johansson said.

"Thanks."

Johansson handed him back his bag, and he went on his way to work.

"That happen a lot?" John asked.

"Not a lot,"Johansson said. "Mostly only with the new staffers. That new guy in Wilson's lab-he threw a fit last week when we tried to keep his. He seemed very nervous. I reported it to Major Godwin, just in case."

"Which one is he?" John suspected he knew.

"Damn." Johansson flipped through the logbook. "Sigerson. The tall one with the crazy hair."

Well that was one way to test security. "Has anybody gotten past you?"

"Not that we know of. At least, we've never caught anyone trying to leave with anything."

John nodded. "So if someone tries to bring something in, you just keep it for the day." He grinned. "Rather like school. What happens if you catch someone trying to bring something _out_? That's got to be different, yeah?"

"Oh yeah," Rand said. "That triggers a whole new set of protocols. We have to get somebody to analyze the media and find out what's on it." He pauses. "I think that's what Morris does, now that I think about it. Among the other 'top-secret' stuff." He actually used air-quotes and John had to keep from rolling his eyes.

"You're just pissed off 'cause she gave you the brush-off when you asked her out," Johansson said.

"Well, we can't all be lucky enough to find the 'perfect' one, can we?"

Johansson grinned and ducked his head. "Hey, I meant to ask, is that your MR2 I saw in the parking lot, the red one?"

Now Rand was the one with the enormous grin.

Johansson punched him in the shoulder. "You finally got it! You bastard, you didn't say anything. That's a nice piece of kit. How'd you save for the downpayment so fast?"

Rand shrugged, "My mum helped a little."

"You gotta show me when we're off-duty."

John tuned them out as they started to go on about gear ratios and engine compression. He looked at the locked drawer containing the confiscated flash drives for the day, and tried to think how someone might sneak one in undetected.

* * *

Sherlock paced with as much vehemence as the tiny storage closet would allow. It wasn't an ideal meeting place by any means, but he couldn't take the chance of being seen with John too often. He scrubbed at his scalp with his fingers as if digging for the answers hidden in there. The traitor was Mayhew or Wilson. Had to be. Both of them were dissatisfied with the work they were doing. Mayhew thought it was beneath his talents, and Wilson wasn't getting the recognition she deserved. Mycroft confirmed that Mayhew went to the dog track at least twice a week, and his financial records suggested he wasn't very successful at backing the right dog. Meanwhile Wilson was hemorrhaging money trying to take care of her sister and her nieces.

Of all of the people he'd spoken to, and of all the people Mycroft had looked into, they were the two with the strongest motives and opportunities. The question was _how._ What were the bloody _means_? And which one of them had the least concern for the potential consequences of their actions? He didn't have enough data yet and time was running short to collect it.

The door handle turned and Sherlock froze behind a shelf. John stepped in and immediately checked to see if the door locked-it didn't. Sherlock brought out a piece of wooden pallet and wedged it in to block the door from opening. If someone tried, they might get suspicious, but it would buy them a little bit of time.

"Sherlock," John said, "this is not your most brilliant idea, meeting here like this."

"Shut up and listen," he said. "The culprit is either Dennis Mayhew or Melissa Wilson. I need you to help me figure out how." He gave John a folder. "Here's a print out of their sign ins and sign outs for the past month. Check the security footage for those times. Look for anything unusual."

"Unusual," John said dubiously.

Sherlock waved his hands. "Someone where they shouldn't be, someone acting suspicious. There are enough bloody cameras in this place that one of them should have caught _something_."

"All right, no need to get stroppy." John grinned. "So it sounds like we won't be here as long as you thought."

"No, that's true." Sherlock glanced over at him.

"The case is almost over." John's voice had dropped a notch, and something stirred warningly in Sherlock's hindbrain.

"What are you suggesting?"

John gestured behind him. "D'you suppose that shelf is sturdy enough for me to shag you on it?"

The cartilage in Sherlock's joints must have surely all been melting into liquid. "John-" He cleared his throat and tried again. "John, you can't be suggesting sex when lives are in danger."

"I'm not," John said. "Just raising a hypothetical question."

"You're a terrible liar." Sherlock stepped forward towards John, who was wearing a self-satisfied grin.

"You're the one who tests hypotheses, not me." When Sherlock was close enough, John pulled him down for a brief kiss that Sherlock turned into a longer one, transfixed again at how overwhelmingly and instantaneously his body reacted to John's. Everything else ceased to matter, like in the pub.

He teetered, just a moment, between thought and instinct, then fell to his knees in front of John. "Sod the fucking kitchen," he said, and John gave a satisfying groan. Sherlock ran his hands up the outside of John's legs, the rough uniform fabric catching beneath his hands. He leaned in and curled his fingers around the backs of John's thighs, feeling the tightness of the muscles. He kneaded his fingers into the hard tissue and John sighed, leaning back against one of the shelves. When Sherlock pressed his mouth against one of his thighs, John reached down and threaded his fingers in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock bit, letting his tongue stroke the fabric of John's trousers, the heat from his groin radiating against the side of his face.

Sherlock wanted to strip John down and reduce him to a limply spasming heap, but at the same time, he wanted to make it last, to make John suffer a little of what Sherlock had been suffering for weeks. He looked up to see John biting his lower lip fiercely to keep from making any sound. Sherlock looked him in the eyes and slowly, so slowly, ran his tongue over his lower lip. John's hand tightened in his hair, stinging just enough to make Sherlock's skin prickle pleasingly. He leaned in again, his mouth further in on John's thigh, and dragged upwards, trailing one hand around and up to brush over the cock already hard and swollen in John's trousers.

The blood was pounding in Sherlock's temples and he felt as if he might have a fever. John's sharp intake of breath as Sherlock slowly rubbed him through layers of heavy cotton was as good as a scream to Sherlock's ears. He mouthed at the warm crease between John's leg and pelvis.

At first Sherlock thought he imagined the scream, some overwrought figment of his imagination.

"You can't do this to me!" It was a woman's voice, and it was right outside their door.


	5. Chapter 5

"Stay here," John hissed. His pulse pounded for a very different reason than it had a moment earlier. He paused, grateful his erection had faded with the scream, then moved the pallet blocking the door and stepped through.

Dr Fletcher stood outside, along with one of the other scientists—John couldn't remember her name right away. Private Rand and Private Davies were to either side of the woman, clearly escorting her out. "What's going on?" John asked. A small audience lingered around the fringes, and John glared at them until they started to disperse.

"Dr Wilson has been asked to leave the premises," Dr Fletcher said, "and she was unwilling to do so."

"This isn't fair," Dr Wilson cried. "I haven't done anything wrong!"

"Melissa, this is neither the place nor time," Fletcher said.

"All the years I've worked here, and you're just going to throw me out because of what that—that _bitch_ said about me!" Her face was streaked with tears, and whatever she had done, John couldn't fight a stirring of pity. Still, he nodded at the two privates and they started herding the woman towards the exit. He and Dr Fletcher went along.

"It's likely temporary," Fletcher said. "You know the procedure. We have to investigate the charges and in the meantime, you cannot be on the premises."

John touched her on the forearm. "Whatever happened, you're not helping your case with a scene, Doctor."

Wilson stopped and gave him a haughty look through mascara-ringed eyes. She straightened her posture, shook off her escort and turned to Dr Fletcher. "I won't forget this, Jeffrey. I won't ever forget this." Then she walked away, Privates Rand and Davies at her side.

"What on earth happened?" John asked.

"We'll be bringing your team in soon enough," Fletcher said. "May as well tell you. One of our junior scientists had weeks' worth of her research utterly destroyed this afternoon. There's evidence to suggest Dr Wilson may have been the culprit."

"Why would she do that?"

Fletcher shrugged. "Professional jealousy, maybe. Nina Hunter's an up and comer, and Dr Wilson has been struggling lately. They're both working on a rather controversial program at the moment. Maybe Wilson cracked under the strain. It's happened before. My predecessor left a rambling resignation letter quoting Robert J. Oppenheimer when he left—that bit about becoming Death, destroyer of worlds."

Fletcher wasn't burdened with such a conscience, but John kept that opinion to himself. "Poor woman," John said.

"Well, we'll get it all straightened out in the end. If she wasn't involved, we'll have her back right away." Fletcher paused. "What were you doing in the supply closet?"

"Oh." John laughed. "Thank you for reminding me. Corporal Campbell told me there were office supplies in there. I needed a notepad."

"Top left shelf in the back corner," Fletcher said.

"Ta very much. I'll just nip in and get that now," John said, and turned to go back to the closet. If Sherlock wasn't where he left him, John would have to get in touch with him some other way.

Sherlock was still in there, texting on his mobile. "What took you so long? What the hell was Wilson screeching about? I couldn't hear once you walked away."

"Someone sabotaged some research," John said. "Fletcher thinks it was her."

Sherlock pocketed his phone. "What research?"

"He didn't say, he just said that Nina Miller was involved as well. That's the pretty girl you keep going out with, isn't it?"

"Is that jealousy I hear?" Sherlock said. "She's a good source of information, and the least annoying of the lot. And unlike that pretty corporal of yours, she has no ulterior motives."

"Fine, whatever," John said. "What do we do about the saboteur?"

"Nothing yet." Sherlock paused for a moment. "I'll talk to Nina. You go and check out that surveillance footage. This doesn't rule out Wilson as a suspect."

* * *

Sherlock found Nina in one of the work areas, standing over several petri dishes. Her eyes were red and she looked utterly lost and very young.

"Nina."

As soon as he spoke her head jerked up and she schooled her expression into something blank and neutral. "David, hi."

"God, I heard what happened, are you all right?"

"All that work..." She looked down at the table. "My samples are ruined. I'll have to start over again."

"I'm so sorry." He came over and put a hand on her shoulder. "I thought that sort of thing stopped in uni. I mean, it's one thing to tamper with someone's grade, but with professional research..." Sherlock shook his head. "It's horrible, really."

"I had to fight so hard to get the funding for this project," she said, surreptitiously wiping beneath one eye. "They might use this as an excuse to pull the plug on it."

"What were you researching?"

"The director before Dr Fletcher, he had some pretty lofty ideas about eradicating diseases, ending world hunger, that sort of thing—it was before we were getting quite so much MOD funding. But he had the idea that it might be possible to sort of infect the DNA of a cell and change it to make it more resilient. The possible impact on crop growth is staggering." Even as she talked about her research, her eyes brightened as she warmed to the subject.

"Why on earth would anyone pull the plug on funding that? That sounds vital." Sherlock knew the answer, but of course, David Sigerson wouldn't.

Nina gave him a sad smile. "The MOD isn't much for ending world hunger, I'm afraid."

"Not in their purview," Sherlock agreed. "I don't understand though, if Wilson wanted to discredit someone, why this project? I mean, even if she wanted to target you, you must have other projects."

"This has been the most high-profile," Nina said. "Baskerville was already looking at implementation strategies." She shook her head. "Now I don't know."

Sherlock patted her awkwardly on the arm. What did ordinary people do to comfort a coworker? "Are you sure it was intentional? I mean... did you see her do it?"

"I didn't see her, but I saw her walking away from my station, and when I checked, well... here." She picked up one the petri dishes and held it out to Sherlock. The strong smell of bleach reached his nose before the dish was half a metre away.

"She put bleach in them?" Crude, but certainly effective.

Nina nodded. "She's never liked me. I just didn't think..."

"It's awful," Sherlock said, then put an arm around her shoulders. "There's nothing you can do about it right now. What do you say we skive off and go get a drink?"

"That sounds brilliant," Nina said. "Let me grab my things."

She walked away, and Sherlock looked down at the ruined samples, frowning. If Wilson was his culprit, would she risk losing her access to information for good? It didn't fit.

* * *

John got up to get another cup of terrible tea, rubbing at his eyes. He'd been studying surveillance footage for the past four hours. Sherlock's directions had been maddeningly vague: look for anything out of the ordinary. The good part was, there was such an established routine at the checkpoints and doors, anything unusual would—or should, at least—jump out immediately. The bad part was, there was such an established routine at the checkpoints and doors, it was tedious as hell to sit through.

He sat back down at his desk. If anyone came by, he had a stack of paperwork to hand, although keeping up with surveillance fell under his job description. He made a few notes on potential security improvements—may as well do something useful as he fast-forwarded through the clips. Now if he could just—

John sat up and rewound the video. He watched the clip again, dated for the previous Saturday at 1607. What he was seeing was wrong, but he couldn't immediately identify why. He watched it again, slower: the laboratory supplies delivery lorry drove through the front gate. That was all right. The deliveries always came through on Saturdays, but they usually came—_wait_—earlier in the day.

John looked closer. The lorry driver wore sunglasses. Not surprising, Saturday had started off bright and sunny. He'd had the weekend to himself and had gone for a long walk through the Yorkshire countryside.

And had been caught in a sudden downpour as he headed home for tea. The rain had lasted a good hour. At 1607 the entire village and its environs had been rainy.

In the surveillance footage, it was still sunny, and there were no rain puddles anywhere to be seen.

On a hunch, John reached for the DVD with the Saturday AM timestamp, and also checked the sign in sheet. There was no record of a lorry arriving at the lab at any time Saturday afternoon. There was, however, an arrival at 1122. He forwarded the morning DVD to that timestamp, and there was the same lorry, same driver with sunglasses and all.

It might be an honest error. The transcriber might have moved the wrong footage twice. But that wouldn't change the timestamp, surely? John pulled up the duty roster for Saturday. In his notebook, he recorded everyone who was on duty at 1600 on Saturday.

His tea forgotten, John started going through the stack of surveillance DVDs on his desk. Every time he found a discrepancy, he made a note of who was on duty.

By the time he was interrupted by a knock on his office door, his eyes were bleary and dry.

"You're here early, Captain," said a cheerful voice.

John glanced at the clock to find it was 0500. He'd been watching recordings all night. The cheerful voice belonged to Corporal Campbell.

"Oh, or maybe here late," she said.

He stretched, rubbing at his eyes, and winced at the creaking of his back. "Yes." He gave her his best smile. "I don't suppose there's any coffee in the mess?"

Campbell grinned. "Just on, Captain. I'll bring you some when it's ready."

"Campbell, you're an angel from heaven."

She was pretty when she blushed. "I'll bet you say that to all the girls, Captain Kincaide."

"Only the ones who bring me coffee, Corporal Campbell." As she turned to go, he said, "When you get back, can you tell me when Private Rand is on duty again?"

"Don't have to look," she said. "He's back on at 1500 today."

"Thanks," John said. "You know, don't bother about the coffee. I think I'd do better to pop off home and get a little rest." Once she had gone, John opened his phone and sent a text to Mycroft:

To: M. Holmes 05:11  
What do we have on Private Jacob R. Rand? I may have found something.

* * *

Even as Sherlock was leaving the lab for the day—supposedly—he still wasn't convinced they were doing the right thing. The pieces fit, but as Sherlock looked closer, one or two of the pieces might have been forced into place. There was no denying that John had found evidence Rand had tampered with the security cameras. Throwing more fuel on the fire, Mycroft had turned up absolutely nothing on his credit history. No credit at all, but records showed he'd purchased his new car with cash. A great deal of it. It didn't make _sense_. How had Rand gotten access to the research in the first place? Or found a buyer? It was maddening.

Once he left the building, he circled back around and headed back in. "I left something in my office," he said to the fairer-skinned guard on duty, the one with the new boyfriend. That wouldn't last, the boyfriend was more interested in women.

John was already waiting for him. With Wilson out of commission for an undetermined time, Sherlock had the office to himself. John was still in uniform, and still armed.

"I just heard from Mycroft," John said. "His team is in place. He also says we'd better be correct about this because of how much this exercise is costing the taxpayers."

"Elections must be coming up," Sherlock sniffed. "He never worries about the taxpayers at any other time. You are sure about this Rand though, John?"

"I know what I saw," John said. "He's the only one who could be altering the surveillance. And Mycroft found the money trail. You ready?"

"We're just going to confront him."

John flashed him a grin. "It usually works, doesn't it?"

Sherlock grinned in return, his heart picking up speed. They walked together out into the corridor side by side. As they rounded the first corner, Sherlock paused, frowning. He looked up at the security camera positioned in the corner. "John, stay still." John did, and Sherlock walked backwards, then traced his steps forward again. The camera, which should have been motion sensitive, stayed where it was. The red light was blinking, but the camera didn't move.

At the next corner, Sherlock tried the same thing again. And the next. None of the motion sensitive cameras were responding to motion. He grabbed John by the arm. "He's tampering with the cameras _right now_." They were about to catch him red-handed.

Without another word, the two of them broke into a run.

"We should split up," Sherlock said as they went. "He'll be away from his post, off with his buyer. You go turn the cameras back on, and I'll find them."

"Like hell," John said. "We both do the cameras, and then go for him."

They burst through the doors to the command centre and found Jake Rand sitting at his post, reading a book. Sherlock skidded to a stop, surprised, and John nearly bumped into him.

Rand stood up and saluted. "Captain, I didn't realise you were here so late. Hello, Dr Sigerson."

"Private, have you checked your surveillance lately?" John vaulted over the security desk and looked at the monitors. Before Sherlock could shout a warning, Rand had drawn his sidearm and was pointing it at John.

"You weren't supposed to see that, Captain. I'm sorry." John's hand twitched towards his own weapon, and Rand brandished his in return. "Uh-uh. Hands up, Captain Kincaide. Go back over there with the good doctor." He shook his head. "Just as well I suppose, I was about ready to shake the dust of this lousy place off my feet anyway. The two of you just wait right there for five more minutes, and nobody will get hurt."

"While you betray your country? Do you think we're going to stand here and let you do that?" Sherlock said.

"Betray my country," Rand sneered. "That's a little melodramatic, don't you think? Now shut it, both of you."

Sherlock and John exchanged glances. Whatever damage Rand had done, they'd have to hope it was repairable. Five minutes passed, and then Rand flipped a few switches, keeping his weapon levelled at them. He came around the desk and motioned for them to get out of his way.

"You'll never get off the grounds," John said. "MI-5 already know everything, and they're out there, waiting."

"I'll take my chances." Then he was through the doors and gone.

Sherlock ran to the desk and John ran to the door. John paused. "What are you doing?"

There, on the desk, was a familiar little rectangle of plastic, and Sherlock started laughing. "What is wrong with you?" John said. "We need to go after him before he gets to the—"

Sherlock held up Rand's ID. "The lift? I don't imagine he'll have much luck there, do you?"

"You're joking," John said, and shook his head with a smile. "Well all right, let's go round him up."

The lab was empty at this late hour, and their footsteps echoed on the tile. Every so often, Sherlock made John stop, listening for another set of footsteps. They crept along together, keeping close to cover, John's weapon at the ready. They were almost to the lift when a shot whistled close to their heads, and John hauled them both down.

"There he is, the bastard," John said, and ducked out of cover to fire back a shot of his own. "I think I can corner him. Stay here."

John hadn't taken a half-dozen steps before Sherlock heard more gunfire, and then the sound of John screaming.


	6. Chapter 6

He found John leaning against the lift doors, trying to drag himself towards better cover.

"Get out of here, you're going to get shot," John growled. There was blood, a lot of it, staining John's right shirt sleeve.

"Where'd he go?" Sherlock crouched at John's side.

"So you can go after him? I don't think so." John hissed in pain, and Sherlock helped him around the corner. Once behind some cover, John pushed against the wall until he was standing up. "Your office. Help me stop the bleeding and I'll find him."

Sherlock led the way, glancing over his shoulder at John, who followed, keeping his attention focused behind them. His door was still unlocked, but the office was empty. John staggered in and sank to the floor, his back to one of the cabinets. Sherlock knelt beside him, tearing at John's uniform shirt to get to the source of all the blood.

"Sherlock. _Sherlock_, it's not that bad," John said, but his breathing was harsh with pain.

"Stupid," Sherlock said, folding up a strip of the ruined shirt to press against the bleeding wound on John's arm. "I should have known Rand would still be there."

"It doesn't matter," John said. "Now we know who it is. Call Mycroft." He winced, breath hissing between his teeth. "Careful. I'm not going to bleed to death."

"We can't let him get away. We should—" Sherlock broke off when John's eyes widened at something over Sherlock's shoulder.

"You should what?" Rand said. "You should know better than to leave a blood trail to follow?"

Sherlock looked John in the eye, only to see his own worry reflected there.

A flash of movement at John's waist caught Sherlock's attention. John had the Sig out, cradling it to his belly. Sherlock thought he'd lost it when he was hit. He smiled despite everything and murmured, "I love you."

"I know," John grinned.

"Come on, Dr Sigerson, Captain. On your feet."

Sherlock raised his hands as if to follow orders, then threw himself out of John's line of fire. John fired one shot, the report painfully loud in the confines of Sherlock's office. Rand stumbled back against the doorframe, looking with disbelief at the wound in his chest. He fell backwards into the hallway, landing hard on the tile floor. Sherlock scrabbled over to him, kicking his gun out of reach before kneeling to check for vital signs. Rand stared blankly at the ceiling, and Sherlock could find no pulse. He started methodically searching through Rand's pockets.

"What are you doing?" asked John, struggling to his feet. "Is he dead?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "He must be carrying something. A flash drive, something with the data for his buyer." He sat back on his heels with a huff. "There's nothing here."

"He could have hidden it before he came after us."

Sherlock shook his head. "His blood was up. All he was thinking about was keeping us from reporting him."

"Check his belt," John said, coming forward to look over Sherlock's shoulder. "There might be a compartment hidden in it."

Sherlock unfastened the dead man's belt without a qualm, and pulled it free of his trousers. John took it from him and flipped it to the inside, fingers dragging over the regulation leather. "No, nothing," John said."

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock said. "He can't just have—"

He was cut off by a stifled scream. "Oh my god, David, what happened?" Sherlock looked up to see Nina standing in the hallway, her hands covering her mouth. In the corner of his eye, he saw John hide Rand's belt behind his back.

In a moment Sherlock calculated several possible outcomes. He chose a path of action, leaping to his feet and grabbing Nina by the shoulders. "Nina, are you hurt? Did he hurt you?"

"What? No, I—I was working late and I heard the shots. What's going on?"

John stepped forward, shirt torn, bloodstained shoulder very much in evidence. "Private Rand refused a direct order, then shot me, Miss Hunter. I've called Major Godwin."

Nina's dark complexion was going sallow. "There's just... so much blood." She stared at the corpse on the floor until John steered her attention away, drawing her into Sherlock's office.

"Here," he said, "sit down. Do you feel faint?"

"Yes," she said, and he eased her head down until it hung between her knees.

"Just breathe," he said.

Sherlock took advantage of the distraction to send a text to Mycroft.

From: Sherlock 19:18  
Found your traitor. Unfortunately, John had to shoot him.  
-SH

"It's all right," John said.

"What did—what did he do?" Nina asked. Her voice sounded a little more steady.

"It doesn't matter now."

Sherlock frowned, glancing back at the two of them, then at Rand's cooling corpse. Rand had definitely been the person turning off the surveillance cameras at specific times, but would he have had enough time while they were off to leave his post and make the data drop? Would he have left his post at all? Leaving his post with the surveillance turned off increased his chances of getting caught, without him there to cover the lapse. He never would have left. Pieces rearranged themselves in Sherlock's head, and now he could see where he'd initially forced some of the pieces into place. Stupid, _stupid_—he'd let John influence his view of the events. Rand wasn't an innocent man, not by a long chalk, but he hadn't been the only one involved. Someone else, then. Someone with access to high level data—that was the biggest piece that didn't fit. Someone who had something to gain by distributing the information.

Mobile in hand, Sherlock stared at it as if it had the answers. He'd been so focused on the obvious money trail, on getting out of Yorkshire and back into John's bed, that he'd forgotten to pay close attention to the people, what made them who they were. Mayhew was too interested in the status quo to try and upset it. Wilson just wanted acknowledgment of her work. He glanced back at Nina Hunter.

_"I wish I'd known—before—what the consequences might be, but what can you do? Science marches on."_

_"The MOD isn't much for ending world hunger, I'm afraid."_

From: Sherlock 19:20  
Hold off just yet.  
-SH

Then he turned back to Nina and John. John was taking her pulse, and she still looked a little green around the gills.

"So who is it?" Sherlock asked, walking over to them. "The Russians? The Chinese?"

"Sigerson, what are you—" John said, giving him a dirty look.

"It's all right, John," Sherlock said. "Nina deserves to know the truth. She's a believer in truth, and free information. Only it's not quite free, is it?"

John rose to his feet, still looking at Sherlock uncertainly. "Are you saying—?"

Nina's voice overlapped his, "John—but I thought his name was—"

"You didn't answer my question, Nina. The Russians, or the Chinese?"

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. "I don't know what you're—"

"Your research," Sherlock interrupted, making sure to loom over her with his fullest height. "Who have you been selling it to?"

"No one!" She stood up. "I would never sell—"

"Who are you giving it to then?"

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about," she said, and now there was fear in her eyes. "You're mad. Maybe you're the one selling information, and you killed that poor man because he found out." She tried to duck around Sherlock, but he moved to intercept her.

"When you realised Innovation was planning to weaponise Corona-132, did you make contact with your buyer right then, or did you wait a day or two?"

Nina looked from Sherlock to John with a single darting glance, then looked to the door. Sherlock could see her mind working, making calculations on her chances for escape.

"Come on, Miss Hunter," John said, stepping between her and the doorway. "We know Rand was blocking surveillance on a regular basis. Was he doing that for you? For a cut of the profits?"

"No!" Nina said. "I hardly knew him." She looked between Sherlock and John once more, and her shoulders dropped. "I didn't know anything about any surveillance." She sank back down onto her chair.

"Then what was he doing?" asked Sherlock, looming over her.

"I don't know, I told you!" Her voice shook when she finally said, "It was wrong, the research we were doing here."

"And treason made it better?"

"Do you know what Corona-132 _does_, David—or whatever your name is? It's a nerve agent, like Sarin. It inhibits the enzymes that allow your muscles to relax. First you start sniffling, then drooling. You get blisters in your lungs, and your muscles lock up. When Dr Mayhew tested it on rabbits, they died _screaming_."

"_Christ_," John murmured, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I thought—no one should be allowed that power. I thought, maybe if there were mutually assured destruction, then no one would use the weapon."

Sherlock stayed dispassionate. "How was Melissa Wilson involved?"

Nina shook her head hard. Her eyes were overbright, but there were no tears falling. "The new project, it was worse than Corona. We were trying to _save lives_, David. But all the MOD wanted was a new way to kill people. I just wanted to stop the research for a little while. She's been here so long, I thought she would just get her wrist slapped. It's _wrong_, don't you see that? What we're doing here is _wrong._"

Sherlock smiled to himself and sent one last text to Mycroft.

From: Sherlock 19:27  
Give me ten minutes. Then send in your team.  
-SH

* * *

"That's the deal, Mycroft," Sherlock said. "Take it, or every newsroom in the UK gets a packet describing what you've been working on here."

The four of them were still in Sherlock's office with the door closed. John stood beside Nina; his arm was heavily bandaged and she was still sitting and wearing a vacant, confused look. He put his hand on her shoulder.

Mycroft's expression said he was swallowing a very bitter pill indeed. "I could just charge all of you."

"You wouldn't do that, Mummy wouldn't like it." Sherlock leaned against his desk and crossed his ankles. "Dr Hunter is a talented researcher and will make one hell of a whistleblower, if it comes to that." He gave his brother a thin smile. "And if for some reason something happens to her, I have copies of all of her notes."

"And in return—"

"And in return you stop Corona-132." Nina's voice was quiet but steady. "And the Fletcher-Smythe project."

Mycroft looked at her as if a zoo animal had suddenly started giving lectures on animal rights. "Miss Hunter—"

"Dr Hunter," John corrected.

"_Dr_ Hunter," Mycroft said through gritted teeth. "Those projects are a matter of national security. I don't have the power to just—"

Sherlock laughed.

"Those projects are both WMD projects," John said, "and I can't imagine your friends at the UN would be pleased to find out about them."

The way Mycroft's mouth tightened, Sherlock knew they'd won. "Anything else?"

* * *

"So just like that," John said. He and Sherlock were walking down the corridor, leaving Mycroft to sort out the mess. "She goes free."

"She's right. The MOD went too far. Her buyers will never get the rest of her research, and I've gathered just enough dirt on Dr Fletcher that I think I can convince him to put a halt to the Corona-132 project."

John caught his arm. "And you're just going to let Rand take all of the blame."

"Rand is dead. Mycroft's people caught his accomplices in one of the loading bays," Sherlock said. "He's been selling laboratory equipment for over a year and marking the stolen equipment in the log books as damaged."

"But he wasn't—"

"A thief, yes, a traitor, no," Sherlock said. "Unless stealing from one's country counts, which frankly in his case, it should. It was quite a profitable little sideline for him." John still frowned at him. Sherlock sighed. "Mycroft is going to let the leak investigation drop. Rand was killed stealing equipment. It's not much better than treason, but at least it's something he's guilty of."

"Nina Hunter wasn't taking any money for the information at all, was she?"

Sherlock shook his head. "She believed she was doing the right thing. It was incredibly stupid of her, but well-meaning."

"What's going to happen to her, do you think?"

"Well, she's going to turn in her resignation to Fletcher in the morning, and go back to work in the private sector. I think she'll be happy there."

"Poor girl," John said, clasping his hands behind his back.

The movement was what drew Sherlock's attention. He looked up the length of John's body and his pulse leapt with realisation. A quick glance confirmed there were none of Mycroft's goons nearby. He grabbed John by the arm and shoved him into the corridor wall, pressing up against his body and leaning down to kiss him hard and fast, already grinding his hips against John's body.

"Hey—" The rest of John's protest was lost against Sherlock's mouth. When he finally broke away, his cheeks were flushed and he was out of breath. "What's that all about? Are you finally ready to admit defeat?"

"John," Sherlock leaned down to breathe hot against his ear. "You aren't paying attention. The case is over."

The way John's eyes widened was immensely satisfying. "My flat."

"I was thinking the supply closet again." He leaned down and nuzzled at John's ear and murmured, "We could test that shelf."

"No." John pushed him away and caught him by the hand, pulling him towards the front entrance. "Tell your brother you're going to be busy for the next hour or so."

"You're optimistic."

"No, I plan to be thorough." John shot him a wicked grin that made his knees tremble.

They reached John's tiny flat in what Sherlock suspected must be record time. He was pleased to see the slightest tremor in John's hand as he unlocked the door. The flat itself was deathly ordinary and drab, but it had a bed, and that was all that mattered, assuming they made it that far. He started biting at the nape of John's neck, bare and vulnerable above his collar, while John locked the front door.

John growled and turned around, pulling Sherlock towards the back of the flat—presumably where the bedroom was—while landing off-centre kisses on Sherlock's mouth and jaw. The flat seemed impossibly large now that Sherlock was stumbling across it, trying to pull his own clothes off as he went, fingers fumbling at his shirt. His jacket was left crumpled by the front door. The banked fire that had been smouldering in the back of his brain for nearly three weeks threatened to engulf him. He reached for John, who was unbuttoning his damaged uniform shirt, and stopped his hands. "Leave it on."

"I should have known." Instead John helped pull away the rest of Sherlock's clothing until he was down to just his pants. "Jesus, you're hard already."

"I was hard when you unlocked the door," Sherlock said, pulling John towards the bed. He sat down when his knees hit the mattress, and scooted back, still trying to pull John with him. It was only mostly successful. John's arm buckled and he landed almost on Sherlock, laughing.

"Impatient. Ow, watch the arm," he chided, crawling up to to kiss Sherlock. His senses were swamped with nothing but John: his scent, his taste, his warmth, the sound of his tiny little groan as Sherlock grabbed his arse. "Here, switch with me," John said. "I can't hold myself up with this arm."

Once John had settled on his back, Sherlock climbed over him, straddling his hips. The fabric of his cotton pants caught against the heavier fabric of John's uniform trousers as he writhed. He needed. That was all. There was nothing in his mind but the pulsing frantic hunger. He scooted back just enough to unfasten John's flies, folding the material back and tugging down his pants just enough to allow his penis to spring free. There had never been anything more beautiful, to Sherlock's mind, than the stiff, purple-red of John's cock surrounded by white pants and dark green and brown trousers. He curled his fingers around it, then brought his own penis in line with it. The hot hard flesh against his made him whimper. John arched against him and Sherlock couldn't—he just couldn't—

He barely had a chance to stroke them together twice before pleasure burst from a pinpoint of light in his brain to a blinding flash that left him transfixed like a nuclear shadow. His groan was equal parts relief and frustration. "Damn it." He opened his eyes to see John smiling.

"_Fuck me,_ that was hot," John murmured. "Come down here."

Sherlock looked down at John's uniform, which was spattered in a line nearly up to John's chin, then gingerly laid down beside John. He kept his hand wrapped around John's cock, slowly stroking him. John leaned in and kissed him, and it was a slow burn, relaxed but purposeful. "Lucky you," John said, smiling between kisses. "You get to come twice."

"Oh god," Sherlock breathed, and pressed himself against John's side. The two of them kissed like there was all the time in the world, and after a few minutes, Sherlock had slipped his hands beneath John's t-shirt, dragging his nails lightly up and down John's ribs.

"That tickles." John murmured against his mouth, trying to catch Sherlock's hand and stop it.

Sherlock dragged his lips down to John's ear. "I still want you to fuck me with your boots on."

"Mm. I will fuck you anyway you want," John said, tangling his fingers in Sherlock's hair. "Tell me when you're ready."

His pants were as good as ruined, so Sherlock shimmied out of them, leaving him completely naked against John's clothed body. Only John's cock was out, and a small strip of white belly where his shirt had rucked up. Sherlock couldn't resist leaning down and curling his tongue around the head. John chuckled. "If you want me to fuck you, I wouldn't get too involved with that." He gave Sherlock's hair a playful tug. "It's been a long time for me too."

Knowing John the way he did, Sherlock reached for the drawer of the nighttable, and sure enough, there was a small bottle of lube that John favoured, and a packet of tissues. He sat the former on the table, then lay back beside John, groaning when he ran his hands over Sherlock's bare skin. They kissed and kissed while John teased and stroked everywhere he could reach, lapping up Sherlock's whimpers and moans with his tongue. John ran his hand down Sherlock's leg, and Sherlock immediately raised it, parting his thighs in an unspoken invitation. John's fingertips trailed over his inner thigh, then curved down to stroke Sherlock's arse-cheek, raising goosebumps all over his skin.

"Are you trying to tell me that you're ready?" John murmured. "Show me."

Sherlock rose up on his knees and reached for the bottle on the nightstand. John murmured appreciatively and reached up to curl his fingers loosely around Sherlock's cock, which was starting to twitch and swell again already. Knowing that John was watching made him conscious of his every movement as he covered his right hand with lube and arched back, reaching behind to work the lube into his anus, feeling the sweet slide and the fluttering of the muscle beneath his fingers. He savoured it, John's small, strong hand around him, making him get hard, making little starbursts of pleasure burst behind his eyes, while his own fingers dipped and teased. When he felt slick enough, he poured out more of the lube to rub on John's cock. John scooted up, resting against the headboard so he was only partly reclined, and crooked a finger at Sherlock. "Come here."

No second invitation was necessary. Sherlock straddled John, feeling the wet, slippery tip of his cock nudging against the crack of his arse. He writhed against it, letting it slip between his cheeks, teasing both of them until they were both positively dripping with need. "God, I've missed you," John groaned. "Let me in, let me fuck you."

Sherlock wiped his hands on the sheets, then curled his fingers into John's uniform and murmured, "Yes." He reached down and moved John's cock into position, then pressed down. His thighs trembled with the effort of moving so slowly. John's face was a wonder, his eyes half-lidded and his mouth half-open; Sherlock could see his tongue curling and his mouth watered to taste it, but if he did, he would lose all focus. Finally he sank down enough that the tip of John's cock breached him, and he paused, savouring the stretch, feeling the shivery pleasure running up his spine. He breathed in, then out, trailing the fingers of his right hand over John's cheek. John pressed a kiss into his palm and Sherlock relaxed his thighs a little more, taking in more of John's cock, groaning at the sweet ache of being filled.

Beneath him, John was also trembling, no doubt fighting the urge to thrust upwards. "Fuck, I've missed you," John said, running his hands up Sherlock's sides. Sherlock leaned forward, resting his palms over John's chest. The soft cotton of John's t-shirt didn't muffle his thudding heartbeat. John pulled him forward, and raised his knees a little behind him. They'd done this so often that John knew exactly the angle and pace Sherlock needed. When Sherlock nodded, John started thrusting in concert with Sherlock's downward movement. The press of John's clothed thighs against his arse was a tease.

Sherlock knew he was making noise, incoherent humming with each thrust. It wasn't until John giggled and shushed him that he realised he'd been loud. "You're not—here much longer," Sherlock managed to gasp. It was like flying, floaty and disconnected from any reality but hot hard flesh slipping slick and wet into his body, flesh that wasn't his, but that belonged to him just the same. His own cock had softened a little with the proceedings, but stirred again as the tingling spark of arousal flared brighter in his chest. "John."

It was all he needed to say. John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's cock and started stroking in time with his thrusts. "Oh god," one of them gasped. It didn't matter which one. John's rhythm stuttered then froze as he arched up into Sherlock hard enough to lift his hips from the bed, Sherlock and all. His guttural cry nearly sent Sherlock over the edge a second time. Feeling John start to soften and slip from him, feeling the wetness, the warmth already dissipating, made Sherlock rock desperately against John's hand, chasing his orgasm.

He finally came with a cry of his own, loud enough that it really was just as well John was leaving. When he lay down, it was more of a barely-controlled collapse against John's chest. He rolled a little to the side, and for a while they just breathed together.

Sherlock's phone chimed and he groaned. "Mycroft, go away."

John looked down at his uniform and laughed shakily. "Well, I'm going to have to change before we make any appearances anywhere."

"Mmm." Sherlock curled against John's chest, burying his face into the tan t-shirt, smelling laundry soap and clean sweat. He had no intention of moving until absolutely necessary.

They lay together, close and warm, for several minutes, then John said, "One thing I still don't understand though. How was Nina sneaking her data out of the lab? You never said."

Sherlock froze. It wasn't that he hadn't thought about it. He'd just lost sight of it, with finding out about Nina and rubbing her in the Mycroft's face, and then, well, getting John into bed as quickly as possible.

John raised up and looked at him. "You still don't know, do you?"

"Of course I do," Sherlock lied.

"You don't. You don't know how she did it, and you forgot to ask." John's eyes widened, and he got an enormous grin. "You didn't finish solving the case yet!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said, flopping against a pillow. "You were right there when I got Nina Hunter to confess. The case is solved and over."

"Then how did she do it?"

"That's irrelevant," he said.

John poked Sherlock in the ribs. If he grinned any wider surely the top of his head would come off. "The only time you say something is irrelevant is when you haven't figured it out yet." He wrapped his hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him back. "You. Lost. The. Bet." He punctuated each word with a kiss.

"I didn't lose," Sherlock said. "I just let you win."

John laughed and pushed Sherlock off of him. "You are such a liar. Come on. Let's go see if your brother has had any more luck with it than you have."

The next morning the two of them were in a rented Land Rover headed back for London. John yawned enormously and rooted around in his kit bag until he found what he wanted. Sherlock looked away from the road long enough to see John slide a CD into the CD player. "Really John, don't tell me you still buy CDs. They're practically obsolete, I can't understand why anybod—" Mayhew's awful dance music. With the network restrictions at Innovation, there was no iTunes, no internet radio, and definitely no iPods, but there had been a proliferation of portable CD players. "John. When your people searched staff at the door, no one said anything about CDs coming in, did they?"

John looked at him, light dawning. "Not if they were obviously professionally recorded, no."

"Text Mycroft. Have them check Nina Hunter's CD collection, and tell him they have a few new restrictions to put in place."

"There's always something," John said, one corner of his mouth crooking up as he reached for his phone. "You still lost the bet, though."

* * *

For the first time in a very long time, John was happy about bringing home the shopping. Sherlock had sworn up and down that today was the day he'd have the flat's kitchen clean of any and all scientific detritus. A clean kitchen, for a year. It was enough to put a spring in anyone's step. He climbed the stairs up to 221B, entertaining visions of cooking an entire meal without once nearly adding body parts to a dish by mistake.

If Sherlock hadn't kept his word, John would kill him.

The kitchen was pristine. Even the kettle was gleaming in its spot on the counter. It even smelled clean. John put the shopping on the kitchen table, and braced himself to open the refrigerator. There were no mystery plastic bowls on the shelves. Everything looked scrubbed. John could detect the faint scent of bleach.

He'd actually done it. It had taken the entire drive back to London to convince Sherlock that he had not, in fact, entirely solved the case before they'd had sex, but on one level John didn't really believe Sherlock would concede this far. John whistled as he put away the shopping in the sparkling clean refrigerator and in the neatly organized cupboards.

There was still no sign of Sherlock, and John decided that he wanted to change into some more comfortable clothes before settling in for a quiet evening.

Halfway up the staircase, John frowned, his nose wrinkling. There was a horrible smell coming down the stairs. A thought occurred, and John took the rest of the stairs two at a time. He threw his bedroom door open to find Sherlock sitting at his desk, looking through a microscope.

"What—Sherlock—what the _hell_ is going on?" John's bed had been shoved against the far wall and was covered in boxes. There were two new tables in the room, taking up most of the floor space, and all of the specimens that had been in the kitchen earlier covered everywhere available surface.

"It had to go somewhere," Sherlock said without looking up from his microscope.

"This is my _bedroom_." He didn't trust himself to say anything further.

"And you never sleep here anymore. You're always with me."

"But this is _my room_."

"Yes, you're being repetitive now." Sherlock pushed away from the desk and looked at him. "Were you using it?"

"My—my _clothes_ are in here. And they're going to smell like—" John waved his hand around the room, indicating the ambient aroma.

"Which is why I moved them downstairs with mine."

"Just like that," John said. He wanted to pace, but there was no floor space available. "You just moved me into your room."

"Well if you'd rather live up here with the experiments—"

"No!" John rubbed at his forehead. "You could have asked."

"If you insist." Sherlock stood and walked over to him. "John, since you've been sleeping in my bed nearly every night for over six months now, and since we otherwise have a perfectly good room up here going to waste, will you please do me the honor of officially moving into my bedroom?" He smirked down at John. "Should I get down on one knee?"

"You git." John looked around at the shambles of the room. "Do I have a choice?"

"You could throw me out of your room in a huff, leaving me with no choice but to set up my experiments in the larger and much more well-lit kitchen again," Sherlock said.

"Not a chance." John pulled him down and gave him a kiss. "So get that hopeful look off your face. The kitchen is off-limits."

Sherlock's face registered disgruntled disappointment. "Oh, Mycroft phoned today. Several times."

"Did you ever talk to him?" John leaned against one of the tables, after testing that it was sturdy enough.

"Not until he came by." Sherlock turned back to his experiment. "He said that I 'clearly failed to comprehend the importance of the research I'd forced him to abandon' and that he would be reluctant to engage my help in the future."

"He... does know that isn't precisely a punishment, doesn't he?"

"I'm certainly not going to tell him," Sherlock said.


End file.
